


My Beloved Monster

by NotAGhost3



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: All Star came on the radio as I was posting this, Daroga is Donkey, F/M, GET OUTTA MY BASEMENT/LAIR/SWAMP - Freeform, Once Upon Another Time Project, Shrek inspired AU, fairy-tale au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23414977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAGhost3/pseuds/NotAGhost3
Summary: It was a simple quest: Rescue the lost princess for the King and then return to his nice, reclusive dungeon life. In a world of secrets, dragons and curses, really, what could go wrong? After all, even Opera Ghosts have layers. The greatest fairy-tale never told...Shrek Fairy-Tale AU. E/C. WIP for the Once Upon Another Time Project on tumblr!
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 22
Kudos: 25





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so this is my story for a-partofthenarrative's tumblr "Once Upon a Time Project" for more fairy-tale inspired AUs! I'm a Believer came on the radio last night and inspiration struck for this Shrek AU! While Erik is not an ogre and there aren't any talking animals, I do hope you guys still enjoy it! hehe This is the prologue so it's fairly short, but important!
> 
> No idea how long this will be, maybe 10 chapters? 15 at most?
> 
> We'll see...hahaha
> 
> Happy fairytale reading and don't forget to check out all the other awesome fairy tale AU stories coming out!

It was long, long ago, in a land not _too_ far away, where two kingdoms laid waiting…watching and praying.

There was to be the birth of not just one child, but two, a fulfillment of a promise that both kingdoms knew. For one kingdom another prince, as the prophets foretold, the other a princess, who was a mere three hours old. Their parents had grown desperate and neither were thriving, it seemed as though everything around them was dying. Wars in distant lands had brought famine and plague, every oracle could only see futures quite vague. It was with this dreadful possibility so near that both Kings and Queens had started to fear. What was to become of their kingdoms and people they loved? What would happen if they weren't to plan a step above? With this threatening feeling hanging o'er their heads, the two kingdoms hatched plans to be wed. There was no doubt that the future seemed truly forlorn, however both Queens had children yet to be born. It was against olden prophecy and wisdom well known, but times were troubled and could the future really be foretold? Times ahead seemed grim and each kingdom was warned, but still a betrothal seemed the best plan going forward. On their own, neither land would stand chance, but together? Well, together, perhaps, they might could change present circumstance.

When the sun was high above (with not a cloud in the sky) two voices rang out their first infant cries. It was then that each child was wrapped in a quilt and brought by their fathers to an altar they had built. With no one but each other and footmen who waited nearby in a carriage, each promised their own newborn child's hand in marriage. One kingdom had power, weapons, and riches; the other had music, magic, and witches. Standing alone, each had their own strengths, but both sides knew that united they could grow to great lengths. It was on this promise that each understood, twenty years from that day, a marriage would end the babes' childhoods. Their kingdoms would join and bring peace to the land, this they agreed upon with a shake of their hands.

Six years passed steadfastly until one dreadful night, when a knock sounded loud from a weary traveler passing by. The moon was quite high and the hour quite late, so late that no guards even stood at the gate. The King had been jolted awake from his slumber when from outside his window the knocking echoed like thunder. He dressed in his robe and flew down the stairs, anxious and confused as to why the stranger was there. He opened the door to reveal a hunched-over man whose cloak was so dirty the white appeared tan. Most likely a gypsy from the traveling camp, a clan, the King knew, to be filled with cruel tramps. With narrowed eyes the King examined the shaking man across the threshold, his heart not yet deciding to mellow.

"My dear, fellow man," the wary King started, "what brings you to my home while it stands utterly unguarded?"

With the bow of his head and an old, crinkly smile, the traveler lifted his eyes towards the squire.

"My majesty, forgive me for I know the night grows cold, but I came to ask for a favor that unto me was foretold."

Knowing the power behind inevitable visions, the King nodded his head, deciding to listen.

"My daughter…my daughter has fallen quite ill," the traveller explained, his shaking now stilled. "I have sought every remedy through every near land, but each one seems to dismiss me with callous demand."

"I see and I hear you." The King crossed his arms. "My beloved Queen met her end due to illness' cunning charms."

What the King said was as true as the promise of weeds in a garden, the whole tragic deal had left his poor widower's heart hardened. It was with this hard heart that he stood there that night, knowing deep in his core that something wasn't quite right.

"What is it you seek?" he asked despite his grim notion. "Have you come to request aid in a potion?"

The old man shook his head and his words became jumbled. "N-n-no my kind King, I stand before you humbled. I have been told of the music that has no earthly twin…music, that if I am not mistaken, comes from _your_ enchanted violin."

At this the King froze, eyes opened wide and took a breath before trying to reply. "How do you know of the violin's power? Just how many kingdoms have you already scoured?"

"I have searched far and wide, but the prophet was clear: no medicine can heal except that which she can hear. Please, I beg you, from one father to another," the poor man cried with a shudder.

The King held his tongue— how could he agree? A violin with such a power was indeed a rarity. True it was his, passed down from his father, and his father before him and each one before the other. Its music was pure and could play every melody, but the knowledge of _how_ was shroud in secrecy. Only the worthy could play it with ease, and the only knowing judge was the violin itself, you see. It was locked away tight with bolt and with hook, it was locked away to protect it from criminal and crook.

"Please might I have it to heal my poor daughter," the beggar asked once again, but the King did not stutter.

"I cannot permit you to use the violin, for it is old and brittle and strings worn thin."

"But, my King! I ask for no shelter nor water, only to borrow the violin on behalf of my daughter."

The King pursed his lips and shook his his head no. The violin had to be earned, surely this man knew so?

The older man snarled and gritted his teeth. "You are a greedy man, selfish and mean."

The King was taken aback, quite befuddled. How quickly this man turned from kind to disgruntled. Before the King could defend his decision, the man before him rose tall and dropped his cloak with skilled precision. The wrinkly old gypsy had transformed much to the King's surprise and in his place stood a man with fire in his eyes. Black smoke erupted from the ground and shrouded him like a hovering robe from all around.

"I have watched from the distance as your kingdom grew weak, hoping that you still had sympathy for the meek."

The King cowered and fell to his knees, shielding himself as he begged and wailed 'please'.

"I have witnessed enough!" the god-like figured cried. "You, pitiful King, shall be the first to die…your reign shall cease and your people forgotten, your wealth will deplete and all magic turn rotten…however, because someone need tell of the tale, locked away by herself, your daughter I'll spare. A curse to live with all of her life until a love who is worthy makes her a wife. Only then shall my punishment have run its course, only _then_ will your kingdom come back with full force."

" _No!_ Please, she is all I have left and she is promised to another," the King yelled out as he wept.

"Ah…but that wasn't enough when I came to you?" the creature threw back, his pride hurt too. "Your palaces will crumble, your kingdom shall fall. Justice will be had, once and for all!"

With no further words, like the wind he vanished and took the still sleeping child whom he had banished. With her he took the gold violin, before starting the fire that began from within. The flames devoured all in its grasp, and on the other side of the distant land, a young prince had awoken with a fevered gasp. Meanwhile, deep in the thick of the forrest under the cover of branches, the shadowy creature brought the small princess to hide, without any scratches. He left her there, high above in a tower, replacing her memory with one that would overpower. None except one lone lady lived near, one whose trust the creature held dear. She promised to protect her from any who might come to lay claim, with this knowledge the creature left just as quick as he came.

The thickets grew dense and the princess was forgot, turning into a nothing but a mere legend that peasants and kings alike told their lot. The kingdom that once stood tall did not even rust, instead it returned to the earth, dust to dust.

And so it was here that the legend was born…of a lost princess whose kingdom nobody mourned…


	2. Basements Are the New Swamps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooooow....has it really been three months? Oof, sorry about that! But here's the official start to our story and I hear there's a certain basement not-an-ogre to be on the lookout for...

The day had started like any other.

Damp, dark, and a bit of rum in his morning tea.

Really, the perfect start.

_…and if you would open your ears, I am sure you would also notice that the third trombonist has been flat the last five performances and if something is not promptly done about this, I will take things into my own hands. Speaking of hands…_

_CRASH!_

Erik’s eyes narrowed, quill mid-air ready to strike another word on the sheet of parchment on the desk before him. 

That _damned_ Daroga.

He huffed and set back to penning his note for the fools above him. Pssh, as if they knew anything about properly tuning instruments or putting on a proper performance for the King’s court. Nothing, they knew nothing about it. If only he were truly in charge, things would be different, better. If it weren’t for the cursed monstrosity that maimed his face (and reputation for that matter) he would be successful and not tortured to listen to the buffoons trying to pass off as musicians—

_CRASH!_

He snatched up his parchment and crumpled it in his fist. 

“Daroga!” He growled, pushing away from his chair and thundering toward his front door of his little underground home. 

Maskless and fuming, he ripped the door open prepared to lead the pest back to the nearest intruder trap and leave him there for the next unlucky adventurer to find.

“Daroga I swear I have had enough of your antics, I wish to be left…” but the rest of his words died in his mouth at the sight before him. 

There before him was the _entire_ company of court performers. On the shore of _his_ lake. They crowded around his non-existent porch, arguing and crying and shouting. Some were standing in the shallow part of the lake, others were haphazardly clinging to each other doing their best to avoid stepping in the water. No matter what they were doing, they were _there_. The singers, the orchestra, the stagehands, the seamstresses, the managers, the crew, the third trombonist— all of them. Every single member.

Every. Single. One.

He could already feel the rage building inside him as he surveyed the damage: the torches used to light the way and the bags upon bags of belongings and trash littering the shore of his lake. 

His lake.

He slammed his door and tossed aside his crumpled note as he roared above the madness:

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY _LAIR?_ ”

The crowd quieted, eyes now turning to him.

(The quiet quickly turned to the usual sound that accompanied unsuspecting trespassers: gasps, screams, threats of death…the usual.)

He seized a torch from the closest standing court musician and let the flame light the shadows of his face as he lunged at his unwelcome guests, swiping the fire back and forth.

“Now then…” he seethed as those around him backed away from his fire (and rage for that matter) “Would someone mind informing me what the meaning of all this is?”

The voices began all at once, talking and shouting over each other as the uproar erupted once more. 

Couldn’t he just have some peace and quiet for once? Just _once_?

“The king! It was the king!” A shout rose above the jumble of answers, catching Erik’s ears.

He snagged the collar of the man’s shirt and raised him to his level, the only thing between them his fiery torch in his other hand.

“ _What_ did you say?” He sneered, quite enjoying the fear that dilated in the man’s eyes.

The man’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, gazing hopelessly down at the ground as Erik gripped his shirt collar tighter.

Erik’s lips twisted up in a grin, still leering down at his informant.

Without looking him in the face, the man squeaked an answer.

Unfortunately, too soft for Erik to hear over the rest of the commotion.

He jerked the man closer. “Again,” he snarled, yellow eyes alive by the light of his flame.

“The king has cut our funding and banned all further performances and took away our homes!” He said louder, eyelids screwed tightly shut as Erik leaned in closer.

He dropped the man with an unceremonious _thud_.

Of course.

King Philippe de Chagny, always ruining his life, always getting himself involved. Of _course_ this was his doing.

He let out another roar of ‘QUIET’ and the crowd fell into a scared hush, huddling amongst themselves from the monster in their midst.

He hadn’t always been a monster.

But to these people, he had always been one. Dwelling underground and lurking in the shadows of their lives only appearing when necessary and having no mercy left to show. He knew what his face looked like, knew the kind of fear it struck in a person, the kind of unwavering terror he was capable of.

Monster was a job title he could truly live up to.

With a sneer, he inched closer. 

“So, the King told you of my whereabouts, did he? Sent you here to torture me? Thinking me a good samaritan willing to take pity on the lot of you? Well, well, well…” 

He lowered his flame until he was spitting distance from the nearest ballet rat in front of him.

“You have all been sorely misinformed.”

“Now.” With a grunt he turned back toward his front door and trudged to it. He placed the torch back into the holder it had been taken from and turned back to the crowd, his voice dangerously low. 

“Get _out_ of my basement.”

But no one moved at his warning.

None that is but the smallest pink legged ballerina girl, blonde curls falling from her bun and into her face.

“It was me.”

He knew this girl. This was Meg Giry, daughter of the only person above who had managed to secure an inch of his trust. She was clever and quick on her feet but also the quickest source of information in a pinch. The girl knew everyone and all their business which was quite convenient for his line of…work. He supposed she was bearable to be around and likable to a certain degree.

_Trustworthy_. 

She clasped her hands in front of her, blue eyes wide with worry. “I told them how to get here, not the King.”

He mentally retracted his entire previous statement.

“Is that so?” His voice dripped with derision as he neared her.

She nodded, curls bouncing up and down as she did. “We had nowhere else to go! The King barred our windows and doors and forced us out. The King—“

“The King this, the King that…” he slinked toward the crowd, eyes scanning over them. “I do not care what the King did or did not do, what I care about is that you are in my domain and mine alone and I want you all out of here at once!”

The crowd looked amongst themselves but no one dared speak.

“What crime was committed to earn this defunding? Which of you crossed him? Or was it the prince that has been crossed, hm? There is a reason and I demand to know it,” his eyes bore into little Meg quaking under his gaze.

Quiet murmurs now ran through the groups of people, worried whispers and accusing remarks targeted toward the King. 

“He did not like the last show we put on!” Another voice piped up, deeper into the crowd.

Erik brushed little Meg Giry aside and pushed his way through the crowd until he came to the source of the information.

He’d know that mop of red hair anywhere: Carlotta Giudicelli. 

He couldn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Because of you I can only assume,” he deadpanned, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down at her.

Carlotta was the primary “singer” of every performance and had been for the last seven years but voices grew tired and her’s had been exhausted to begin with. If he were to call her a soprano he’d have to give the same title to his tea kettle. Shrieking was a more accurate description of the notes she “sung”. 

The King no doubt had gone home with blisters in his ear from the sound.

She recoiled at the sight of him but continued on. “The King dismissed us all over a pathetic opinion from that sickly little prince.” Each word was hurled at him with such distaste that a part of him almost respected her boldness. 

_Almost_.

“An opinion?” He questioned, studying the expressions of those around him. “What was it?”

“We don’t know!” Another voice cried out. 

“We weren’t told, just that he was offended!” Another followed quickly after.

He whirled around, instantly recognizing the incompetent men that attempted to run the productions. Fools of their own kind and always late with his… _payments_. Erik cocked a single eyebrow.

“And this opinion came from the _prince_?”

Heads nodded all around him. 

He sighed and began marching back toward the front of the crowd that was getting dangerously close to his front door.

“The prince? Truly? The prince has rarely been seen ever in his life and you’re telling me he came to the last performance without attracting attention and was somehow _offended?”_ He shouted, towering over the crowd.

A few murmurs of agreement was all he needed to make up his mind.

He needed to speak to the King.

_Now_.

He would not tolerate this nonsense, especially not in his home!

Without looking back, he opened (and then promptly shut) his door and grabbed his cloak from his coat hanger and secured a few choice weapons into the pockets he had concealed in its thick velvet folds. He retrieved his mask from the small in table near his door and secured it over his face. He took a deep breath, giving a longing look to his rum laced tea growing cold on his desk and the many abandoned drafts of music littering the ground.

If even one of those fools touched a single thing in his house while he was gone…

Well, he’d deal with that when he came back.

How he wished he were reclining in his sitting chair instead of dealing with…whatever nonsense had been flung upon him.

He would be back before sundown, the castle wasn’t exactly hard to locate and as for getting into the castle…well he had his ways.

The door creaked as he opened it to the angry opera crew once more and then shut it, turning the lock.

“I am taking this up with King Philippe immediately. When I return, I expect you all to be gone and my home undisturbed,” he warned as he tied the strings of his cloak around his neck.

“Erik! Erik! Erik!” A _very_ familiar voice rose above the noise and the people bristled as a man began pushing his way through toward the front, a curious red felt hat upon his head and pants filthy from lake water. “Erik, the King defunded the Opera and sent everyone away and…and…” but he trailed off as Erik’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You already know that don’t you?” He added with an unbothered laugh as he finally made it to where Erik stood. 

The Daroga…terrible timing as always. 

“I will be back before end of day. Do not let them destroy my house or I will hold you solely responsible.”

The Daroga blinked and glanced over his shoulder at the sea of people behind him.

“They’re staying?” His tone was incredulous as he turned back to Erik.

“Not for long, Daroga…” he flipped the hood of his cloak over his head and cut through the crowd, leaving his acquaintance more confused than he’d been before. His stare was icy as he breezed past what he knew to be the terrible third trombonist from the brass section.

He pursed his lips and shook his head.

“ _Not for long._ ”


End file.
